


hold my hand, tighter (we're all that we have)

by adamstanheight



Category: Archer (Cartoon)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, listen i don't mean to be That Guy but im angsty and i need to scream
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-11
Updated: 2017-05-11
Packaged: 2018-10-30 12:42:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10877022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adamstanheight/pseuds/adamstanheight
Summary: It's not easy being a Tunt.





	hold my hand, tighter (we're all that we have)

It is blindingly sunny on the day of what will likely be the last big Tunt funeral. Socialites and old money hover round the casket, mingling and quietly sniping amongst themselves at the expense of others: members of families whom they believe shouldn’t be there, or even on the social radar anymore, considering how and to whom their children have been marrying themselves off recently. The priest doesn’t bother asking for a moment of silence as the coffins are lowered into their respective graves, 10 feet apart, because this is how it was at the service too. People too busy staving off hunger pains and indiscreetly lighting up long cigarettes to say many words about Richard and Eleanor Tunt, or to send up a bid for their immortal souls.

Cecil Tunt is the only actual Tunt to attend. 15 minutes after he got the call, he dialed his sister's number, prepared to leave a voicemail, but surprisingly enough, she picked up. He wondered if she had caller ID. It was news they had both thought about for a long time, how they were going to get it and when, but they always knew it would be from each other.

“Beans?” he breathes into the line. Cecil rarely calls her this, save for when he feels he needs to.

“...What, Cecil? I’m at work.” He presses his ear closer to hear her better, and in the silence before speaking again, he thinks he hears the crash of something glass shattering. A pained yell.

They’ve spent too long wondering about the details of the call as children to devise how to break the news, but they are Tunts, who have been at the mercy of whispers and half-truths too long to continue the tradition with each other. “Mom and Dad are dead.” He doesn’t hear her breathe. He doesn’t hear anything. “The driver had a stroke and crashed into a tree.” A tiny, slow exhale through her nose; barely audible. “The wake is in two weeks.”

A beat. Another beat. Finally, “I don’t know. Ms. Archer would fire me.”

He’s still baffled as to why she took that godforsaken job. “Then let her. Beans, you don’t need that.” He’s never seen her work, isn’t totally sure what her job even is, but from the stories she’s told at Thanksgiving dinners and Christmas soirees, it’s a cesspool over there. Not fit for his sister.

“I’ll see, I guess.” A tense pause. “Bye, Cecil.” Before the receiver clicks down into place, he hears a shrill, harpy screech. “Carol, I swear to Christ, if you waste anymore time on the phone yapping with God-knows-who instead of making those copies I asked for, I’ll fashion your hair into a coaster!” She quickly hangs up, and Cecil feels a little nauseous.


End file.
